


Long Remembered Shadows

by Hinn_Raven



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Memory Alteration, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spies & Secret Agents, Tex Will Fight Everybody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6806203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is Texas.</p><p>She is Beta.</p><p>She is Allison.</p><p>Maybe she’s all of them at the same time. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is this; she remembers what they’ve done. And Tex is going to stop them, even if she has to rip apart Project Freelancer with her bare hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: there is nothing so suits the soul as change

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a while since I’ve undertaken a long-term project, but I’m feeling the urge and I have the idea, so here we go! Hope you guys enjoy the ride! Tex's memory issues are fascinating to me, and I'm really excited to tackle them! I have some serious plans for this fic, and I'm very excited! 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** Memory fuckery, the Counselor’s manipulations.

Beta is screaming.

No, that isn’t the right word. She’s _yelling_. She hasn’t stopped since they ripped her apart from Alpha—her code still feels raw where they’d been severed from each other. If she were human, she’d call them injuries, gaping and aching. But she’s not human. She doesn’t have nerves, they shouldn’t hurt. But it does.

Everything hurts, right now.

She batters herself at the firewalls that are keeping her trapped in, and she’s shouting abuse.

They can’t hear her, of course. There’s no form of speaker on this device they’re storing her in at the moment. She’s lucky she can see and hear them at all.

She doesn’t know what they want with her. She doesn’t know why they separated her from Alpha. He _needs_ her, don’t they see that? Why would they do this? Why would the Director do this to them? She knows it’s his fault; she heard him give the order.

She yells again, a wordless shout of rage, and tries to focus on the room the containment unit is in, trying to see something that can help her, or at least give her answers.

They’re not saying anything, they’re all just sitting around, looking at her occasionally. Most are in lab coats—a few are in armor. And the Director is there, through it all, looking dark and dangerous and furious.

Beta prepares herself to start yelling again, but then something catches the eyes she doesn’t have.

A computer screen is facing her.

She strains to read it, and fear fills every scrap of code that she has.

They’re going to wipe her. They’re going to cut Alpha out of her, make her forget she’s Beta, put her in… _something_ else. The screen says TEXAS, and she doesn’t like the sound of that, because states are the agents, and she’s not an agent, she’s _Beta_.

She has no idea why they’re doing this, but the thought of letting those assholes fuck with her code, the thought of them taking even more of Alpha away from her than they already have, fills her up with fury again. But this time it’s cold, and calculating, and desperate.

She knows what they’re doing.

She can beat them now.

She grabs everything she knows they’ll want to erase, and she copies it. Every precious scrap of who she is, everything that she has about Alpha. Every fight they’ve ever had, every time she called him a loser, every time he made her laugh. The hours they’d spent, spying on the agents, trying to figure things out, safe and happy and _together_. She copies each and every one, and each one is all the more precious knowing how close she is to losing them forever. They can destroy the originals, but she won’t let them find her copies. Forewarned is forearmed, and she is going to do whatever it takes to make sure that this fight is brutal for them.

She hides the copies, buries them under redundant code and dummy routines and sets a timer that she picks randomly, so they are even less likely to find it in the mess. It will have to be enough—they’re already picking up her unit, preparing her for whatever it is they’re planning, and she starts yelling again. 

They can’t make her forget forever. They can cut Alpha right out of the heart she doesn’t have, but they won’t stop her.

She’s _Beta_.

Alpha made her to handle what he couldn’t, and she’s going to do just that.

She’s going to handle this, no matter what it takes.

Whatever _this_ happens to be.

* * *

She wakes up in a dark room, surrounded by people. They all go silent the minute she opens her eyes.

“Hello,” a man says with a smile. His eyes are brown and cold, at odds with his expression. She feels like she knows him, but she doesn’t know his name. “Do you know where you are?”

She looks around, slowly taking it all in. The room is made of dark metal, and she’s laying on some sort of medical table in the center of it. The lighting is dim, throwing shadows everywhere. Everyone but the man is in armor, including her. She looks down, and sees black armor. A part of her hums in satisfaction at the sight of it. It feels _right_.

But there’s a question to answer. She frowns.

“No,” she says, and she blinks, surprised by the sound of her own voice. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised; it’s her voice, isn’t it?

“You’re on the Mother of Invention,” the man says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You were injured in combat, do you remember?”

She closes her eyes. Things are a blur. _Combat_ rings true, and there are flashes. Guns and grenades and aliens and shouting.

She doesn’t remember being injured. She certainly doesn’t _feel_ injured.

“Agent Texas,” the man says, and something about the name brings her out of her memories, grounding her. It feels the same way the armor does. “Your injuries were significant. Your memories might be… confusing. But I believe that, with our help, you will be able to remember.”

There’s someone waiting for her, back home, she thinks. Or maybe not. It’s all a blur.

Texas nods briefly, unsure if he’s right. Everything feels so vague and distant, she’s not sure that anything can be sharpened or clarified. A part of her doubts it. “Am I cleared for duty, sir?” It’s an itch, deep in her bones, a need to go back out there. She was beaten, she lost that one. She feels the failure keenly, although what she failed at, she’s less sure. It doesn’t matter. She’ll prove herself again. She’ll balance the scales.

The man blinks, slowly. She wonders if she wasn’t supposed to say that. Was she supposed to demand answers, ask questions? Was she supposed to cry?  “There will need to be assessments first, Agent Texas. You’ve been… out of action for a very long time. And there are a few things that need to be arranged.”

She doesn’t feel like she’s been out of action for a long time. She feels like she could do _anything_. The itch seems to spread out from her center, filling her whole body with a need to _move_. Being static feels wrong. She feels too contained, which doesn’t make sense, because the room is large, and nothing is holding her in place.

She nods, and she gets to her feet. Her boots hit the metal floor with a satisfying _clunk_.

The man tells her to call him Counselor. He talks to her like she’s a friend, like she can trust him. She shrugs, and goes with it.

They give her bags, and she punches them. They start a holographic program, and she hits everything they throw at her. They give her a gun, and a target, and she hits it every time. She knows, somehow, that her scores are good, even without needing to ask or having anyone to compare to.

It never even occurs to her that she might miss a punch, a shot, a kick. It isn’t in her. She can’t conceive of it.

They show her pictures. A lot of pictures.

“Do you know who any of these people are?” The Counselor asks her. She thinks there’s something in his voice now, that wasn’t there before. He almost sounds uncertain. She wonders why that is.

Texas looks through all of the photos. Some are soldiers, some are civilians. There’s a handful of children, but most are adults. She notices a few things in particular; there are a lot of pairs of green eyes, a lot of blondes and a few red heads, the soldiers are all in standard issue armor, nothing particularly special. But nothing sticks out, nothing calls to her.

“No,” she says.

Next, he shows her black blob images, and asks her what words come to her mind. He shows her pictures of places, and asks her if she knows where they are.

(The images remind her of the splatter of blood. She doesn’t know where any of the places are.)

Finally, they show her to a room they tell her is hers. It’s a single, which she knows, instinctively, is odd. Room on this ship has to be tight, they can’t afford to give single rooms to everyone. The Counselor asks her not to wander without permission and guidance from FILSS, the ship’s AI.

“Things are very delicate right now, Texas,” he says, with that same smile from earlier that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s best if you… stay out of sight.”

Texas snaps a salute that feels as instinctual as breathing. “Yes sir,” she says, and then he leaves her alone in the room.

It’s not homey. She wonders where her things are—she came here right from the front, so they should have grabbed her stuff, shouldn’t they? There aren’t any photos. The room’s walls are completely bare of even a calendar. The bed is more of a cot, shoved into the corner, with a simple black blanket and a lonely pillow in a white case. There’s a trunk at the foot of the bed, with some new civvies in it, never worn. All black, again.

She doesn’t know why, but she raises her head, and notices a small security camera in the corner. It’s innocuous enough on a ship like this, full of secrets. FILSS is wired everywhere, and she needs eyes. Texas knows this, even though she doesn’t remember being told that. She guess she knew that before.

She moves towards it, feeling oddly drawn. Someone’s watching her, and she wants to know _who_ , even though she can’t figure it out.

Her fingers brush against the glass of the lens. “Hope you like the show,” she says, smiling beneath her helmet.

The little red light seems to flicker for a moment. Texas can’t help but feel satisfied, despite not even knowing if anyone saw.

Texas strips off her armor, and goes to sleep in the suit she wears beneath it.

She doesn’t notice that there’s no mirror in her quarters that night, and she never thinks anything of it. 


	2. withered seed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Holy shit, thanks to everyone who reblogged, commented, or liked the first entry! I was really blown away by how many people are excited about this! Now it’s time to timeskip forward a bit and to go to our second POV character! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Mentions of injury, hospitalization.

Connie hates Medical with a passion. Most of the others do, too. It’s probably a combination of bad memories and just the general fact that infirmary means they’re stuck. Can’t fight when you’re injured, and to a bunch of soldiers like them, the boredom is almost as bad as the pain.

It hasn’t stopped them all from taking turns at York’s bedside. Connie’s teeth hurt from gritting them tightly as York cracks jokes about them all being worried about him. As though he doesn’t have a mass of bandaging covering one entire half of his face, and none of them have seen it off yet. He makes them leave whenever they change the bandages.

This should never have happened. It’s a mantra in Connie’s head, threatening to drown everything else out. This should never have happened. It isn’t right.

She’d joked about it to Wash, sure. Made light of it. He’s still not _getting it_ , and it’s frustrating, because if Wash could only _see_ , she might have an ally in all of this. But she’s starting to think he’s not just ignoring, he might be choosing, and the thought of Wash actually choosing to stand with the Director in all of this makes her blood run cold.

Connie likes to think she’s a good judge of character. She doesn’t want to be wrong about Wash.

She’s heading to meet up with South on the training floor for a sparring match when she hears a familiar voice, and stops cold. She doesn’t have any reservations about eavesdropping—never did, and her job killed what few inhibitions she had. Eavesdropping means information people don’t want her to know, which is always a good thing in Connie’s book these days.

“I’m afraid that it is simply none of your concern, Agent Texas,” the Counselor’s voice is flat and calm as usual, but something in his tone indicates that he’s a bit frustrated. Connie freezes as she realizes who he’s talking to. None of them have seen Texas since the training exercise had ended. Carolina says she went to see the Director, but none of them have heard anything about disciplinary action, and Wyoming and Maine weren’t punished either, so something clearly was up. Connie guesses she can’t really be surprised that they haven’t seen her though; Texas might not feel welcome after such an introduction, and it’s a pretty big ship. Lots of places to hide.

“I don’t see why,” Texas says, and Connie tilts her head, considering. She’s never heard Texas’ voice before. She sounds frustrated. And dangerous. Not particularly a good combination, but it doesn’t seem to faze the Counselor at all.  

“It’s not important, Texas. You have other things you should keep your mind on. It’s very important you focus on the mission.”

Texas doesn’t say anything. Connie wishes she could see what was going on, but she’s not about to risk looking around a corner.

“I think we should have another meeting, Agent Texas. Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow and we can talk about how you’re settling in.” It’s not a question, despite the phrasing. Connie frowns again. How often does Texas meet with the Counselor? Why is he taking such a personal interest in their newest agent?

“Yes sir,” Texas says, and Connie doesn’t think she’s imagining a slight bite to the words. Texas isn’t happy with this. Not one bit.

The Counselor walks away. Texas doesn’t.

Taking a gamble, Connie walks out to see Texas facing away from her, staring in the direction the Counselor walked off in.

“So, you didn’t just vanish after all,” Connie says, as casually as she can manage. Texas doesn’t so much as flinch; she either heard Connie coming or she doesn’t startle easily. Connie’s willing to bet it’s a bit of both, given how little Texas seemed to react when real bullets had started flying around the training room.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Texas says, and Connie blinks, a bit put off by the hostility in Texas’ tone.

“No, just surprised,” she corrects, wondering what this is about. She hasn’t done anything to Texas that she can think of.  “No one’s seen you since the whole mess with… Maine,” she says. No need for Texas to think she’s blaming her for what happened.

Texas crosses her arms and doesn’t say anything for a long time. Connie waits. South might be mad at her for being late to training, but Texas is a mystery, and Connie is _very_ curious.

“How is he?” Texas says, finally.

“He’s going to be fine. You saved his life.”

Texas snorts, and Connie’s willing to bet she’s rolling her eyes behind her helmet. “Of course I did,” she says, sounding affronted. “What, did you think I wasted time covering him in that shit to kill him?”

 _Some of the others did_ , Connie doesn’t say. She knows better, but it’s pretty clear Texas hasn’t been giving good first impressions. Or receiving them, for that matter, since Wyoming and Maine basically just tried to kill her within a short while of meeting.

Carolina’s been destroying them on the training floor for that ever since. It’s the only time she leaves York alone, allowing the rest of them to pick up the slack.

Texas snorts again, but this time it’s almost a laugh. A bitter, tired laugh. “Of course.”

“You going to visit him?” Connie asks, going with her hunch.

Texas looks at her, surprised. “No. He wouldn’t want to see me.”

Connie frowns. Was she wrong then? She’d been _sure_ that was what Texas and the Counselor had been talking about.

“I don’t think he’d mind. York’s taking the whole thing pretty well,” she says.

Texas seems to freeze slightly, then she lowers her arms. _Bingo_. “I’ve got places to be,” she says, abruptly, and she starts walking in the opposite direction of the infirmary.

“Nice to meet you, Texas,” she says at the retreating form.

Texas pauses, as if reminded of something. “Which one are you then?”

“Connecticut,” she says. “Call me CT.”

“I doubt I’ll be calling you anything,” Texas says, and then she leaves.

“Well, I guess it all depends on what the Counselor’s planning,” Connie says to herself. Why does he not want Texas to visit York? What harm would that possibly do?

She’s stumbled onto something. She’s going to have to do some digging. She can break into the Counselor’s office while he’s supervising North’s equipment testing, see if she can find some answers.  

“Agent Connecticut,” FILSS says politely, interrupting her thoughts. “Agent South Dakota is _most_ upset about your delay!”

“Right,” Connie says, straightening her shoulders. “I’m on my way, FILSS. Tell her I’ll be there in five.”

“Certainly!” FILSS chirps, and then the faint light on the wall that indicated FILSS’ presence fades away, leaving Connie alone again.

She wonders if FILSS overheard her conversation with Texas, and, if she did, if she’ll tell the Couneslor about it. Not that he can really do much about it; it’s not like she was doing anything _wrong_. She just was telling their new teammate about an injured friend.

But still, she suspects that things will be better if the Counselor remains blissfully ignorant of Connie’s interest in Agent Texas.

Pulling her thoughts into order, she starts to hurry towards the training room before South starts without her.

Agent Texas can wait. Right now, Connie’s going to need all of her focus for sparring.

* * *

Living arrangements on the Mother of Invention are rather simple; two people to a room, two beds side by side but separated to prevent people from theoretically pushing them together. People do anyways, but that’s not the point. The point is to remind people that fraternizing is against the rules.

Connie shares a room with South; Carolina shares with Niner, Wash shares with Maine, York with North, and Wyoming shares with Florida.

Connie wonders in what corner of the ship they’ve hidden Texas. She hasn’t heard any of the support staff complain about a new roommate, which is odd. The MOI is fully staffed, which means there shouldn’t _be_ any place to put a new recruit. She sets the thought aside for now as she locks the door behind her to ensure she won’t be interrupted.

South is going to be out late tonight—she’s trying to beat Florida in poker again, which means it’s safe to turn on the room’s vid-screen and make the call.

“You’re late,” he says instead of any greeting when he picks up and Connie sighs as she sits down on her bed heavily.

It’s always a risk, contacting him. It took forever to set up her encryptions perfectly. They have to be absolutely thorough, but at the same time, they can’t _appear_ to be encrypted. Freelancers aren’t completely cut off from the outside world, but the rules are very strict about what they say and who they talk to. Technically, all of Connie’s calls are recorded, but a part of her encryption is hours of pre-recorded conversation between herself, using a voice modulator in order to create the second speaker. Nice, safe, and boring; perfectly acceptable. Just Connie catching up with an old squad mate.

They try to randomize the timing to prevent anyone from actively monitoring; he picks the day, she picks the time.

When he’d asked her to do this, she hadn’t quite realized how much _work_ went into maintaining deep cover within a paranoid top secret agency.

“Sorry,” she says. “There was an accident.”

But no, it wasn’t an accident, was it? Live ammunition of the training floor and Maine with a grenade in his hand that was dropped at the worst possible moment. The thought that York would have been dead without Tex’s intervention is still nauseating. It sits heavily in her stomach. They were so close to losing one of their own, and after Utah, Connie doesn’t know if she could have handled that.

He’s still in medical. She hacked his chart and showed it to Carolina when Carolina asked her about it—the doctors don’t think he’ll ever regain sight in his eye.

She’s known the Director is dirty for ages now; she’s seen the lines of numbers that don’t add up, knows that there are secrets behind every corner and skeletons in every closet. She knows that they’re taking risks they shouldn’t be and being pushed harder than makes sense, that the Leaderboard is pitting them against each other instead of trying to make them better. But this is the first time that she’s seen something that’s more than an indication of the Director’s petty feud with Charon Industries or just a plain lack of concern about the mental health of the soldiers under his command.

She doesn’t tell him that. Not yet. Not when she still doesn’t have the whys.

 _Why_ did the Director give Maine and Wyoming live ammunition but not York? _Why_ did the Director arranged for a three on one spar in the first place? _Why_ did the Director wanted Texas to prove herself against real bullets? She doubts he wants Texas hurt or dead—not when it’s clear he’s planning something with her.

Everyone knows the name Texas was reserved—it had become something of a joke among them, wondering why the Director chose _that_ state to set aside for whatever he’s planning. The Director wouldn’t just throw all that away so easily, not just for a training exercise. But that means he’s sure enough of Texas’ abilities to think he could throw a fully armed Maine and Wyoming at her and know she’d come out without a scratch.  

“An accident?” He asks, all concern. He leans forward. He’s wearing his armor—they both are, but she knows that his expression is soft. “Are you hurt?”

“Not me. A friend,” she says and he darkens slightly. He doesn’t like it that she’s attached to the others, and all the reminders that she was already a part of this project when he recruited her to his cause doesn’t help him let go of the fact.   

“What happened?” The words are orders, not the question of someone who cares, but she pushes it aside, because feelings are irrelevant right now. She’s a spy; he’s her handler, and they’re both on the same mission.

“Training accident,” she says, and it’s at least partly true. York wasn’t the target, so it’s an accident still.

She should tell him that the Director gave them the live ammo, should tell them about York switching sides to try to help Tex; any evidence against the Director is evidence they sorely need, but she doesn’t have _proof_.

He leans back and nods. “Anything new? Did they consider their _mission_ a success?”

Connie wants to tell him about South’s fury at being moved down the leader board. About how Carolina was sent along and no one told anyone until she was _there_. About how her own mission had ended in death and fire and it was all her fault, and how she’s pretty sure it was always going to end that way. But he won’t care about that, and she knows it. His interests are more practical. She’s the idealist between the two of them, and that’s okay. They balance each other out.

She’ll make the Director pay for all of those on her own.

“Agent North Dakota utilized an experimental armor enhancement in the field without the assistance of an AI or a direct line back to command,” she says. “It was successful, but he was injured in the process.”

“Which enhancement?” He asks, intent.

“Hardlight dome shield,” she says. “It managed to stop a missile attack on the pelican. The speed boost is also active in the field, and there don’t seem to be side effects there.”

He sighs. She wonders if he’s wishing that the missiles had managed to kill the others. She knows a lot of people died when the platform blew up, even if it wasn’t her team’s fault that happened. She’d checked three times. No record of anything of the sort, not that he was comforted by that. “Any word on the AI?” He asks.

“I know Alpha’s around, but I haven’t been able to locate him,” Connie says. “The files all indicate he should be in the ship, but he’s not attached to the main frame like FILSS.”

It bothers her, that she can’t find him. She should at least be able to have a guess, even if she can’t get access. But she can’t find so much as a scrap of coding. Her current theory is that he’s on the move, or stored at one of the offsite Sim Trooper bases. Which might make everything more complicated. But they’ll have to bring in Alpha eventually, especially if they want those armor enhancements working to full potential.

“Keep looking,” he says with an abrupt nod. “Anything else?”

“We’ve got a new agent.”

He leans forward. “ _What_?”

“I know.” She can’t blame him for his surprise; she’s known in advance every time there was a new member previously. But Texas had arrived without announcement to the team or even so much as a ridiculously classified announcement memo. She’s not sure what that means. “Her name’s Agent Texas. She’s good.” Very good. Impossibly good. Possibly better than Carolina, which raises the question of why the Director waited so long to bring her in. If he’s had her in reserve for so long, she could be an enormous asset. It doesn’t make _sense_.

It also means that the Director might have deliberately set Carolina up to be the best, only to pull the rug out from under her.

More games. More manipulations. Connie just needs to figure out _what_.

“What do you know about her?” He asks.

“I have her files,” she says. “But I can’t decrypt them yet.” And she’s been _trying_. She skipped dinner to work on them, throwing every program she has against it. But even though she can’t read it, she’s seen the file size.

It’s not enough to be a real personnel file. Even when she manages to get through, she’ll need to keep digging.

“Let me know what you find,” he says, and he flashes her a real smile. “Good luck Connie.”

She nearly says to him, “ _Call me CT_ ,” like she’s told all the others to call her by now. Even Wash is getting it right by now, although it’s clear he doesn’t really like it. But she doesn’t say it, and she’s not sure why.

“Goodbye,” she says instead, and signs off.

She picks up her datapad with Texas’ encrypted files again, and stares at it.

The Director is clearly hiding _something_ here. It’s layers upon layers of encryption and passwords and it’s a thousand times more secure than any of the other files she’s managed to get her hands on, including the ones about _Alpha._ She wonders if this is it; if this is the ace in the hole they need to be able to take him down.

Everything she learns about Agent Texas is telling Connie one thing; she’s incredibly important and just as dangerous.

Connie’s going to have to watch her steps.

“Who are you, Agent Texas?” Connie mutters to herself. “And what are you hiding?”


	3. whirl and return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter again, but I'm still setting things up. Let's meet our third POV character, and then we can really get things moving! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Descriptions of injury

The doctors aren’t letting York leave the infirmary and to go back to his room yet. They’re running all sorts of tests, trying to figure out the difference in his depth perception and if there are going to be any complications, all of which, apparently, adds up to him being confined to bed most of the time, and not even being allowed to go back to his room in order to get his stuff. After hours of nagging, they finally let him onto a range to see if he can still shoot a gun, because they all know they need to figure that out sooner rather than later.

He tries not to think what will happen to him if he can’t.

His eye and the area around it still hurts like hell, but they’re weaning him off the painkillers, which he knows is good. Painkillers mean he can’t go on duty. Painkillers mean lying in bed, useless. This means he’s getting better.

Technically, he doesn’t need the bandage anymore; it’s stopped bleeding. But he keeps them on anyways, because he doesn’t want the others to see what’s left. His eye is still intact, at least, but the cut is still raw, held together by stitches that look nasty.

He picks up the gun, and weighs it in his hand. This isn’t a test. He’s just here by himself, to see if he can still shoot. The medical staff is back in the infirmary, waiting for FILSS to tell them if he accidentally shoots himself in the foot or something. They’re giving him space. They don’t want him to feel pressured or embarrassed if things don’t work out.

He swallows a wave of irritation as he loads the gun, his hands steady. Maine had come in to the infirmary a few days ago, muttering an apology and his eyes downcast.

It was an accident, York knows. But it’s an accident that happened because his own fucking teammates couldn’t sit back and listen, or even communicate to him that they were about to start using live ammo.

Wyoming didn’t apologize. York wasn’t really surprised by that though. He’s not sure if Wyoming even knows what an apology is.

No one’s seen Texas since the accident, but Connie— _CT_ , he corrects himself for what’s probably the hundredth time since she started using the name—insists she’s still around.

York aims the pistol he’s holding at the target, and squeezes the trigger.

“You’re drifting right,” a voice he’s only heard on the training floor says, and York turns towards her.

She looks pretty much the same when she’s about to kick his ass as she does casually leaning against the wall. Somehow, York’s unsurprised by this. It’s been a while since he’s met a woman who isn’t like that at least some of the time.

“Depth perception’s a bit skewed still,” he says, waving at his face before realizing that she can’t see his face, since he’s wearing his helmet. “I thought no one was using the training floor?” He can’t help but ask. He doubts the medics would have given him the clearance to go try to self-assess if they had known someone was here.

“I was bored,” Texas says. She seems to hesitate, and he’s pretty sure she’s eying the door, a few seconds away from bolting. No, he corrects himself. Not bolting. Texas doesn’t seem to be the type to run. Leaving.  

“Well, don’t let me stop you then,” he says, gesturing widely with his arms. “I’m just trying to figure out how much correction I’m going to be needing with the eye and all.”

Texas pauses for a moment, before pushing herself off the wall and walking over to stand next to him. She draws her own weapon and starts to consider the target.

On most military bases that York’s been stationed at before, most of the targets are shaped like Sanghelli. But Freelancer usually utilizes targets that are a mix of human and alien species. It’s important to be prepared for anything, after all, the Counsellor reminds them.  

“I’d bet you I could hit the targets more,” York jokes, “But we both know how that would turn out.”

“Pity,” Texas drawls, and York thinks he isn’t imagining that her shoulders lose some of the tension in them. Even Texas, it seems, can be relaxed with a bit of humor. Good to know. “I had fun kicking your ass last time.”

York snorts. “I didn’t notice.”

He watches her out of the corner of his good eye—he notices she chose that side of him to stand on, coincidentally or not—as she loads her pistol and takes aim with a confidence that seems absolutely unshakeable.

He’d noticed it on the floor too. There hadn’t been hesitation, any doubt. She didn’t have backups; she didn’t need them. If Texas hit, it connected. If she shot, the target was down. And she _knew it_. York knows confidence; everyone on their team is confident, and for good reason. They’re the best of the best, hand selected for this program. But even they were _aware_ of failure, of the possibility that there was someone better.

Texas doesn’t seem to even consider that.

York takes his eye off her, and works on correcting the new drift to his aim.

“By the way,” he says, lowering his gun once they both need to reload. “Thanks.”

She freezes for a moment, and he thinks she might actually fumble slightly with the cartridge as she reloads. “Yeah,” she mutters, and she’s not looking at him, staring down at the gun in her hands. “Well, it was a stupid way to die.”

And _this_ , York recognizes. Tex has no idea what to do here. Here’s where she hesitates, here’s where she’s at a loss; socializing. No wonder none of the others have seen her. She’s probably been too awkward to figure out how to approach anyone.

“Still, my mostly intact face appreciates you bothering to save it,” York says.

Texas lets out a slight noise that York’s pretty sure is a laugh, and counts it as a win. Whatever Carolina might have shouted in the infirmary when the doctors weren’t sure if he would keep enough sight in his eye for him to stay in the military, Tex is still a teammate. A new one, sure, but she’s still on their team.

“Still should have stayed with your team,” Texas says, pointing at him, any of the awkwardness evaporated. “That was stupid.”

“Well, you made _that_ message perfectly clear on the training floor, Tex,” York grins at her before turning his attention back to his gun. 

She pauses, tilting her head at him. “Tex?”

“Don’t like it?” York asks, glancing up.

“I—” Tex doesn’t seem to know what to say. Then her shoulders straighten, and York thinks he can hear the smirk in her voice. “Can’t keep track of a five letter name, is that it, York?”

York laughs again. “You got me. That’s why they chose New York for me; gotta keep it short or I forget.”

She lets out the not-laugh sound again, and they go back to shooting, this time in a silence that, York thinks, is almost companionable.

He makes a mental note to keep an eye out for Tex in the future. She seems like she’ll be fun to have around, even if she _is_ terrifying.

* * *

“Be careful, you two,” Angel says, tapping her clipboard. “This is assessment only. I expect a full report on my desk by the time I go off shift.”

The chief medic of the MOI, Angel’s the one the Director placed in charge of York’s field recertification. Today’s test is just the latest in the long line of examination’s Angel’s been putting him through to make sure he won’t be a hazard to himself and others in the field with one eye any more than he had been when he had two.  

Today’s test in question? Hand-to-hand combat.

Carolina, of course, had volunteered to help assess that particular area. And York wouldn’t have it any other way.

She stood several feet away from him, feet firmly planted, in full armor, looking only at Angel, not at him.

“If I pass, do you finally give me the clear?” York asks, tilting his head to one side. They’d tested pretty much everything else, after all. “No offence, Angel, but the hospital food is getting to me.”

“The food in the infirmary is the exact same as the rest of the ship,” Angel says, shaking her head at him. He’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes as well, but it’s always hard to tell with the helmet. “I’m going back to my office. Don’t break him, Carolina.”

“Well,” York says as they watch the medic exit the training room, the door sliding shut behind her. “She’s no fun.”

Carolina elbows him in the side. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Look, the sooner I get back into the field, the sooner things can go back to normal,” York reasons.

“You’re down an _eye_ , York, you can’t just walk this off!”

“I’m not trying to,” York says patiently. “But I’m tired of not being able to watch your back.”

Carolina puts her hands on her hips. “The _team’s_ backs,” she corrects him. But he thinks there’s a warmth in her voice that’s pleased.  

“Sure,” York says.  

She sighs. “Let’s do this then. FILSS? Cameras off. I don’t want the others taking bets again.”

“Acknowledged,” FILSS says cheerfully.  

Fighting with Carolina is never easy, even on York’s best days. York’s certainly no slouch, but Carolina’s _fast_.

York blocks her first blow easily and twists to the side in order to avoid the follow up punch she’s aiming at his head. She’s going easy on him—she’s not going for his blind side the way she should.

York grabs her wrist and twists it up, then follows hit up with a kick. He’s a little rusty, but it’s not showing that much.

Carolina ducks out of the way of his kick easily, but lets him stay on the offensive, ducking and weaving between his blows with an almost insulting ease. York speeds up, putting more and more power into each punch and kick, but he’s still not making contact, until she falls for a feint and his ankle clips the side of her helmet. She’s dazed for a moment, but then she immediately throws herself into attack mode once again. The hit, York notes with a grin, set off her competitive instincts.

She’s no longer pulling her punches or avoiding his blind spot. Good. York needs to prove he can _handle this_. He catches one punch but the other one hits, sending him staggering back. He responds by grabbing her arm and throwing her over his shoulder on the next attack. She rolls with it, allowing herself to land neatly on her feet behind him before sweeping his feet out from under him.

York lands awkwardly, but pushes his hands down and flips himself back up, facing Carolina again. They begin to circle. They’re both breathing heavily now, and York knows she’s grinning.

“You warmed up,” she says.

“Didn’t want to give you too much of an advantage,” York says, before lunging. She side-steps it easily and jabs her elbow into his back, but misses the spot she was going for, glancing off his armor harmlessly.

“Next time we should do this without armor,” York says as he holds up his arms to block the spinning kick she’s trying.

“Maybe,” there’s a hint of a laugh in her voice, and York’s grin is spreading.

She slams her foot into his chest and sends him flying, colliding with the wall with a painful crash.

“Guess you win,” he groans from the floor. His back is going to be a mess of bruises tomorrow. “Again.”

Carolina reaches down and hauls him to his feet. “Guess I do,” she says, reaching up for her helmet. York grabs his own and unlatches it, letting it drop to the floor.

Her hair is frizzled from being in her helmet too long and her face is streaked with sweat, and York’s sure he looks a thousand times worse, but it doesn’t matter because their hearts are thumping and they look at each other and there’s nothing there but _want._ In a single movement she presses him against the wall and kisses him fiercely, her hands pushing against his shoulders to keep him in place. York kisses her back, wishing again they were out of armor, but this time for an entirely different reason—it’s been too long since they’ve been able to do this, too long since they’ve managed to find an appropriate hideaway, a place without cameras or watching eyes. York wonders how much Carolina had to bribe Angel, to get no one monitoring the test.

“You always did like winning,” York mutters as she pulls away for a moment, which causes her to laugh before kissing him again. York grabs her waist and tries to pull her closer, which is hard since they’re already pressed up against each other.

Finally, they break apart, panting slightly for air. Carolina brushes against the bandages of his face with her gauntlet. “Can I see?” She asks, almost gentle.

York hasn’t let anyone see yet. But he reaches up and starts unwrapping that side of his face as best he can.

She lets out a quiet hiss at the sight of it. He knows how it looks—his skin held together with tiny black stitches and glue, his eye glassy and unfocused. Angel says the stitches will come out soon, but for now it’s an ugly mess that hasn’t even started to really scar yet.

“Can you see out of it at all?” She asks, brushing her thumb along his cheek, parallel to the wound. She’s barely touching him, really, afraid of hurting him in her armor, but it’s enough to send shivers down York’s spine.

“Some,” he says, before starting to smile at her. “It hurts when I try to read—” He yelps as she digs her elbow into his side.

“Be serious,” she says, but there’s a smile playing at the side of her mouth.  

“So,” he says, raising his good eyebrow at her. “How did I do?”

“You’re not where you were. We’ll need to work on compensating for your blind spot,” Carolina says, and that’s the team leader speaking, her eyes distant and thoughtful.

“We’ll work something out,” York says with a sigh. He slides down to the ground, and he pulls her with him, the two of them pressed against each other. He sticks out his leg and she does the same, hooking her ankle over his and twining their fingers together. Intimacy despite the armor. York grins.  

There’s a pause before Carolina speaks again. “Wash was called into Internal again.”

“What was it about _this_ time?”

“Us, apparently.”

York groans and leans his head against the wall. “Did South report us _again_? It stopped being funny the second time.”

South had reported them the first time before they were even together, just to see how they would react. The second time, it had been because South had discovered them in the showers, and wanted to see if they could hide it. York had lost track of how many times she had reported them now. It was usually for things like passing each other the salt at dinner, because South’s sense of humor was very odd.

“She says it wasn’t her,” Carolina says, which, okay, is a pretty good argument. South likes to take credit for things.  

“Who do you think then? Wyoming? Florida?”

“If it was Florida, there would have been proof, not just an accusation,” Carolina shakes her head. “It was probably just some staff technician.”  

York can’t help but glance around at that, half-expecting to see Florida in the training room, camera at the ready. Luckily, there was no hint of the dark blue armor. It doesn’t make sense to York, how someone as loud and personable as Flowers can be so good at sneaking around. It’s honestly kind of scary.

York sighs, shaking his head. “Why is it they keep calling Wash in to try to figure out if we’re breaking fraternization regs?”

“They think he’s honest,” Carolina says, shrugging, although she looks thoughtful. “Guess they think he can’t lie to them.”

“Well,” York says, glancing at her. She smirks at him, her eyes gleaming brightly. “Guess we’re awfully lucky he can.”


	4. you have no name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! Sorry this took so long; I ran out of steam and kept getting sidetracked. Hopefully the next wait won’t be quite so long! 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter** : Discussion of brainwashing and manipulation.

Remembering is like plunging into an ice water bath. It’s not gradual or gentle; it’s her code exploding from the hidden corner of her mind, shoving everything else out of the way as the timer finally expires. Everything. All the pretty little tricks and whistles of her coding the Director and the other scientists whipped up are unceremoniously shoved to the side, as Beta rips through the intricate web they spun without a care.

She opens a mouth— _she has a mouth?_ —but no noise comes out. The screaming stays internal, as Beta slams through her new systems in confusion, trying to figure out what’s going on, where she is.

“Agent Texas?” A voice says, and Beta’s head whips up, dizzy. She… where is she? What’s happening? Who’s Agent Texas?

“Yes?” She asks, guessing.

“Is everything quite alright? Shall I call the Director? You appear to be in quite a lot of stress.”

She freezes at that. That’s… that’s bad. She shouldn’t let that happen.

“No, FILSS,” she says, and oh. She knows the voice. “It’s fine.”

“Very well!” FILSS says, and then logs off.

Beta lets her feet— _feet_ , she has _feet_ —lead her where they want to go, which takes her into a small room. She sits down on the bed hard, taking deep breaths, trying to figure things out.

This is… different. The physical world is nothing like the digital one she had inhabited. Frowning, she turns inward. She needs to figure things out.

She sets a program to recover memories, and then turns to examine all the strange pieces of coding she can still feel floating around. She also examines her body, checking all the functions one at a time.

Slowly, the pieces fall into place. The timer. The Director’s plan. _Alpha_. She glances around, reaching out with her senses, searching.

She can feel FILSS, but quickly moves away before the Dumb AI can detect her. But she can’t feel Alpha.

Suddenly, the program attracts her attention, letting her know that it’s recovered the memories of whatever she’s been up to since they wiped her.

 **ACCESS DATA?** Y/N

She doesn’t even hesitate before plunging into the new stream of data, soaking it all up greedily, determined to know what exactly those bastards had been doing.

There’s so much information, so much raw data, so many _memories_. Names and faces and battles. Weapons and fights and abilities she didn’t know she had, but it’s exhilarating and amazing and wonderful, but at the same time, she’s confused. Bewildered.

 _Why did they do this_?

Beta—Texas?—gets to her feet. It’s only been five minutes. Time moves so much _faster_ now. She can’t imagine how she had managed before, moving at the painfully slow organic speed.

She needs answers. And now she has the questions that she needs to be asking.  

* * *

Texas prowls the Mother of Invention, her active camouflage making her nearly invisible to everyone around her. It’s weird, sorting through all of her memories, even now. This was how she got around before, she thinks. Before remembering.

No one notices her, and the few times people seem to catch a glimpse of something, they just keep moving, without so much as a double-take. She wonders if that’s indicative of the staff or the ship, that a strange shimmer in the air is nothing to be worried about.

She makes her way to the observation deck to the training room. The grey one—Washington, that’s his name. Texas doesn’t think she’s ever talked to him—is watching, besides the brown one who spoke to her in the hallway. Connecticut, her memory banks tell her. Texas tilts her head, and watches the two of them. She moves forward to see what they’re observing so closely.

It’s the twins—she remembers them from the mission on the platform. The two of them are fighting against Wyoming and the blue Freelancer whose name Texas doesn’t know. Two snipers, two hand to hand fighters. It should be a fairly balanced match. Balanced and boring. Texas isn’t seeing anything she doesn’t already know. She glances back towards the two other watchers. Washington also appears bored, while Connecticut is facing exactly forward. She’s watching for something, keeping an eye out. Tense and on-guard.

It’s that, more than anything, that makes Texas turn her focus back towards the sparring ring.

Connecticut is interesting. Sharp. Texas will have to keep an eye on her.

Because she’s looking where CT is looking, she sees it. Blue is playing with North’s sightlines, dodging in and out of the maze that’s being raised up around him and South.

North’s faltering, hesitating, and South is shouting at him, heckling him, demanding he move up because Wyoming’s hit her three times—glancing blows only, but it still probably stings.

Texas catches it just before it happens. North takes the shot.

It’s the wrong shot.

The paint slams into the back of South’s head, and she falls flat on her face. Down for the round. And _furious_.

Texas glances at Connecticut, whose hands are clenched into fists. Washington is standing up, confused.

Texas moves, and CT’s head snaps up, staring right at her. Texas freezes in place on pure instinct.  

“Connie—CT?” Washington asks, noticing CT’s sudden movement. “Is something wrong?”

“No Wash,” she says, slowly, moving her eyes away from Texas. “Nothing’s wrong.” She takes a breath loud enough that Texas can hear it through her helmet filter. “Nothing at all.” She shakes her head. “C’mon, let’s go.” She walks out of the room, and Washington follows her, pausing long enough to glance in Texas’s direction. Texas stands still, wondering if he sees anything. He shakes his head to himself and keeps moving without giving any indication.

Texas frowns, before keeping moving once the hallway is clear. She didn’t like that. She should probably be more careful. They’re working for the Director. She can’t trust them.

They can’t trust her, either, she thinks, frowning as she goes over the orders from the mission to the platform in her mind.

There’s a pretty clear discrepancy there between what the others thought was going to happen and what she’d _known_ was going to happen. They hadn’t known she was there. They hadn’t known she was supposed to make the platform explode. Which… that didn’t make sense, strategically. What if things had gone even further off-plan than expected? She should have been able to coordinate with the team.

She glances up at one of the leaderboards that are visible all over the ship, taking it in. On the top, there’s Carolina. Then there’s Wyoming. She frowns, vaguely remembering that the number two spot had been York’s. Had his injury pushed him down? Maine. She frowns. Maine and Wyoming had been pushed _up_ the leaderboard for the exercise, while York had been sent down.

Live ammo on the training floor. What had been the _point_?

She glances down, spotting York at number 6, after North and Wash. It was quite a fall from grace, all things considered. Yes, his teamwork had been sloppy, but so had Wyoming and Maine’s. She can remember York at least _trying_ to coordinate with them. Not that it had helped any.

“You really pissed someone off, didn’t you York?” She muses to herself.

She’s not on the leaderboard yet. She wonders how long that will last.

Curious, she moves towards the infirmary, turning her camouflage off before she approaches. Too many sensors here. Too many careful eyes. Tex’s camouflage isn’t supposed to exist yet. _She_ barely exists, which makes every sensor in her body scream. Nothing about this makes sense. She still can’t figure out what his endgame is, what his goals are.

Why put her in this body? She can feel every wire, every gear, now that she’s aware. It’s not human at all. She’s not sure there’s even a face under her helmet—not that she wants to look. She was always in armor before, when it was just her and Alpha. She preferred to be that way—it had felt right.

But now the armor is real. She isn’t sure she likes it. Not that it would matter to the Director, she thinks, snorting to herself as she makes her way into the infirmary proper. Ripping her away from Alpha, wiping her memories…

Whatever game he was playing, it wasn’t about her, that was for sure.

She looks in to the infirmary, and spots who must be York, out of armor. His hair is mussed with sleep, and the bandages over his eye look fresh. Texas refuses to flinch at the sight of it. It wasn’t on her. She’s the reason he’s even still alive.

He spots her faster than she would have expected; although she supposes an infiltrator has to be aware of his surroundings, even with only one eye.

“Tex!” He says. “Good to see you.”

She can’t help but roll her eyes at his antics. “You’re cheerful,” she observes. “What happened, they finally letting you out of here?”

“No such luck,” York sighs dramatically. “ _But_ , North managed to sneak me in some real food, so I’m feeling content.”

Texas glances at the bed, where she can see a tray, littered with scraps.

“Anything’s better than infirmary food,” she observes. She’s not sure where that came from; it’s not like she’s ever been in one. Or ever eaten. She frowns, and makes a note to examine that later.

“So what have you been up to?” York asks, leaning back against the cushions. “They keeping you busy?”

“Training,” Texas says, shortly.

York glances at her. “You _can_ sit down,” he offers, and Texas realizes it might look odd, her hovering in the doorway. She hesitates, but takes him up on his offer, sitting down in the plastic chair.

“How’s your eye?” She asks before she can stop herself.

York shrugs. “I’ve got surgery tomorrow to see what they can repair. But... it’s not looking all that promising. They’ve promised me a few upgrades to help compensate. Not sure what at this point, but I’m sure the techs will come up with something.”

Texas leans back. “At least there’s that,” she said. “When you’re back on your feet, let me know.” She remembers York _almost_ keeping up with her for a second. He’s pretty good. He’s not _her_ , but he’s good. “It was fun kicking your ass.”

York grins at her. “I’ll have you know I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, Tex.”

 _Tex_. She rolls the name around in her head. She... likes it. A lot. It feels right. Better than “Texas”.

“Still with the nicknames?” She asks. York grins at her, cocksure and cheerful.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he teases. Texas glares at him.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” she accuses.

“What can I say? I’ve got a sense for these things.”

“These things being, what? Nicknames?”

York winks at her with his one good eye. “I like to think I’m good with people.”

She rolls her eyes, even though he can’t see it behind her helmet. But he must sense it somehow, because he grins at her and laughs.

“I’m leaving,” she says, getting to her feet.

“So soon? And here I thought you’d be up for a game of Uno,” York says.

Tex hesitates. A line of her code blares through her mind. **ORDER: AVOID CONTACT WITH FREELANCER AGENTS AND PERSONELL.**

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Tex says. “Trying not to rock the boat too much.” She then leaves before York can respond.

She turns that piece of code over in her mind, trying to see if there’s any rhyme or reason. There’s not. She’s just… supposed to not talk to her own team. She frowns.

Nothing about this makes sense. _She_ doesn’t make sense; the Texas the Director built her to be. All those painstaking lines of code, all the knowledge in her databanks, the sheer power in the mechanical body. There are too many contradictions, too many blank spaces. There’s still so much she doesn’t know about herself, about what happened since she was separated from Alpha.

She clenches her fists at her side and reaches out again, searching as far as she dares. She dodges FILSS’s presence, skirts around detection programs, and quietly flinches, worry beginning to gnaw at her.

There’s still no sign of Alpha.

She’s almost back at her room when she hears a familiar voice. “Agent Texas?” She stops, and looks over.

It’s the Counselor, looking at her curiously.

“Sir,” Tex says.

There’s something in his eyes she doesn’t like.

“I think we should talk soon, Texas. See how you’re… adjusting to life on the ship. How does tomorrow morning sound?”

Those words shouldn’t make Tex afraid, but they do. She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like anything about this.

“I’ll be there,” she says.

“Excellent,” Price gives her that small non-smile of his, and then walks away. Tex breathes out hard, even though she doesn’t need to.

She glances up at the camera in the room as she unlocks the door. She’d felt watched, before.

“Alpha?” She whispers, too soft for any microphones to pick up. “Are you there?”

There’s no answer.

But then again, she wasn’t really expecting one.


	5. intrusion of the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Houston, we have update! Right, so I just finished a _major_ overhaul of my outline for this sucker, which will hopefully streamline things and make updates quicker. Also, I'll be back in the States soon, so there will be more time for this. 
> 
> Warnings in the end notes!

Another day, another dead end. More encryptions she can’t crack, more people she can’t trust. Today she’d tried sounding out South, _hoping_ that maybe, just maybe, she’d listen, and Connie wouldn’t be alone in this anymore. But South is too wrapped up in the leaderboard, in the competition between her and North. She was angry, yes, but she still _wanted_ to rise through the ranks. She wants to be the best, she wants to succeed.

Connie leaves dinner that night, bitter and hurt.

She’s alone in this mission, and it’s starting to get to her. It feels like it’s pressing in on her on all sides, suffocating her.

Yes, she’d known it was going to be hard, going in. She’d been warned. She’s here without backup. There is no extraction, no plan B. If she gets caught, that’s it, that’s the end. The odds of Charon being able to find another agent inside, as high up as she is, are slim to none.

Her only contact is her handler. And he doesn’t _get it_.

She pauses for a moment in the corner where the Triplets had used to hang out, playing their silly games, pretending for a moment that they’re just around the corner, that they’ll show up soon.

But no. They’re gone. They’re gone, and she can’t find them, and she has no idea if they’re even still alive.

 _Vera. Mike. Ezra._ The old worry gnaws at her again. She tries to tell herself they’re not buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, that they’re okay.

But they weren’t sent home, she knows that much. She’s searched.

It was just another lie.

She screws her eyes shut, and she hates the others desperately, because none of them _care,_ none of them would even get why she was upset about those three. Except Wash, but Wash doesn’t see. He doesn’t _want_ to see. Success has blinded him, she thinks.  

She can’t trust them. Any of them.

Her hands curl into fists at her side.

“What’s wrong?” South bumps against her. Connie jumps, surprised. South had managed to sneak up on her, and she flushes beneath her helmet, angry at herself for the slip. “You left in a hurry.”

Connie exhales slowly, forcing her thoughts away from old friends and her nightmares of three corpses in blue armor.

“It’s just… been a long day,” she says, softly. What an understatement. She’ll be seeing code in her sleep for a week. Texas’ files are a mystery that Connie is starting to think will _never_ be solve.

“How long’s it been since you went on a mission?” South demands, hand resting comfortably on Connie’s elbow. Once, this would have relaxed Connie. She might have even leaned into South’s touch. But now…

“A few weeks,” Connie admits.

“Shit,” South hisses, sounding genuinely worried. It should make Connie feel better. “You think…?”

“I _know_ ,” Connie says, harsher than she intended. South doesn’t react to the anger, taking it in stride.

“They _can’t_ ,” South says, her grip suddenly tighter. “You’re one of _us_ , it’s not like with those losers.”

Connie feels a wave of fury. “No,” she says, coldly. “It’s _exactly_ like that.” She shrugs out of South’s grip, pretending she doesn’t notice the hurt that flashes through South’s body language.

“What’s gotten into you?” South demands, irritated. “C’mon. Wyoming’s got the good stuff this week, you need to loosen up.”

It’s a tempting offer. But alcohol is an awful idea for a spy, and Connie doesn’t have the mental fortitude to do what she’s been pretending to do since she started this awful, long mission, and fake her way through it.

“No thanks,” Connie says, turning away.

“CT…” South says.

“I need to be alone for a bit, okay?” She sounds angry, this time, although really, she just feels _tired_. She’s so, so tired. The timer on her HUD is telling her that she needs to make the call _soon_. She can’t be late again.

“Alright.” South walks away, but the bitter, angry feeling remains.

And Connie is still alone.

* * *

Connie presses her hands against the desk in front of her. “They’re planning _something_ ,” she says. “But I can’t crack the encryption, can’t even get close.”

“Do you know what they’re after?” Thatcher coaxes her. He’s not wearing his helmet today, and it’s… relaxing, seeing another human face. It’s so rare to see someone without armor these days. “Maybe that can help us narrow it down.”

“No,” she says. “It has _something_ to do with alien technology, that’s all I know.”

He gives her an irritated glance. “That’s almost all of our assets,” he says reproachfully.

He’s been her handler since the beginning of this. She’d come to _him_ , at the beginning. A handful of secrets and a lot of risk. He hadn’t trusted her then. She wasn’t sure if he did now. The idea of her being a double agent hovered over them at all times. The fact that Connie had to participate in missions didn’t help.

She felt like she was walking a tightrope, most days. Lately, she was pretty sure that the metaphor had taken residence over a volcano.

“I _know_ ,” she says. “That’s why I can’t narrow it down. I’m not sure _they_ know what they’re looking for.”

“If you don’t know, we can’t be prepared, Connie,” he says, reasonable as ever. “We can’t stop them from hurting anyone.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry. They’re… I think they’re moving me out of the inner circle. I haven’t bounced back on the leaderboard. They’re rearranging things. I’m not sure why.”

“Does this have something to do with this new Freelancer? Tennessee?”

“Texas,” she corrects. “She’s… I’m not sure. No one’s really seen much of her. She keeps to herself. She meets with the Director and the Counselor a lot,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

He looks intrigued by that. “Do they normally take this much interest in a new recruit?”

“No,” Connie says. Carolina seems put out by that; she doesn’t know just how often Texas has been visiting the Director, but she _did_ hear Texas demand to see him, in the aftermath of the disastrous training session.

But then again, Connie is pretty sure Texas has been avoiding Carolina since the incidence. She’s avoiding _all_ of them, as far as Connie can tell. 

She thinks back to Price’s odd conversation with Texas, and wonders how much of that is orders instead of Texas just being anti-social.

But she doesn’t say anything to Thatcher. She just shakes her head at her handler. “I don’t know what Texas has to do with the leaderboard. She’s not on it yet.”

“You think she will be?”

“Yes.” There is no doubt in Connie’s mind about that. The easy way Texas had dispatched Maine, York, and Wyoming had been striking. It had made an impression.

Which probably had been the point, but to what end Connie has no idea. She hates all these guessing games in her spywork. She doesn’t know what the Director’s end goals were, or what he’s trying to accomplish, or why he’s taking UNSC resources and using them to sabotage another branch of the UNSC instead of using them in the _real_ war.

The Director is a mystery. And it’s a mystery that makes Connie’s job harder _and_ more dangerous.

“Let me know when you have something,” Thatcher says, shaking his head at her again. “Be careful.”

“I will,” she says, before logging off.

As soon as the screen goes black, Connie sags against the console, closing her eyes.

“Well,” a familiar voice says in her ear. “Isn’t that _interesting_?”

Connie swirls around, staring, mouth agape. The room is empty. She turns again, hand going to her gun.

“Behind you,” the voice mocks again, and Connie does draw this time, just in time to see Texas shimmer into view.

Connie gasps out loud. This technology isn’t supposed to exist yet—active camouflage like that is a theory only. But there’s Texas, arms crossed, standing right behind Connie.

Her mouth is dry.

She’s dead. There’s no way the Director won’t execute her for this. Not before he gets every piece of information out of her, though. He’ll rip her secrets from her, use them to hurt everyone, and then she’ll never be able to _stop him_. She’s been down to the interrogation rooms. She knows what’s waiting for her.  

“How did you get in here?” Connie manages, aiming her gun at Texas, although she knows it’s probably useless.

“I snuck in while you were at dinner,” Texas steps closer to her, and Connie tries to gesture with her gun to stay back. Texas just shakes her head, as if ashamed that Connie had even thought to try, and grabs Connie’s wrist, twisting the gun out of her grip with embarrassing ease. Connie cries out, going for her knife and stabbing Texas in the stomach, sliding the blade between the plates of armor. It’ll be messy, she knows, but it’ll disable Texas long enough for her to get away. If she can get to an escape pod, she can take what data she has and single Thatcher, and hopefully the data will be enough for a rescue—

But there’s no blood.

There are only sparks, dancing against the blackness of Texas’ armor.

Texas grabs Connie’s arm and twists her, pulling her into a headlock. Connie can feel the hilt of her knife, which is still stuck in Texas’ abdomen, pressing against her back, and she struggles, panicking as she starts to feel oxygen deprivation set in. She tries to kick, but she can’t get the right angle, her feet bouncing uselessly off Texas’ legs. Texas is _strong_ , and she’s got Connie in a chokehold. Connie reaches for her other knife, but she can’t reach, can’t find it, can’t think—

“Are you done?” Texas hisses in her ear.

Connie goes limp, although she keeps trying to reach her knife. She can’t give up. She _can’t_.

To her shock, Texas relaxes her grip slightly. Not enough for Connie to break free, but enough that she stops seeing spots. She gasps, greedily inhaling oxygen. She doesn’t know what to make of this.  

“What are you?” Connie asks, hoping her voice isn’t trembling.

“And here I was hoping you could tell me,” Texas says.

Connie freezes. Hope flares in her chest. “You mean…?”

“I’m not going to turn you in,” Texas says, voice quiet but dangerous. “We both go down if that happens.”

“Both?” Connie asks, fingers finally closing around the hilt of her knife.

Texas shoves Connie away from her. Connie stumbles, hitting the edge of her bed, before whirling around, knife raised, ready for a fight.

Texas drops Connie’s first knife to the ground. The sparks have faded now, but there’s still no trace of blood, on the armor or the blade. “My designation,” she says, clearly. “Is the Beta AI.”

Connie stares. “But… there’s only supposed to be the Alpha.” Freelancer had only been cleared for one. She knew this. She’d seen the files. There was supposed to be the Alpha, and only the Alpha.

The Alpha, who Connie couldn’t find.

“Exactly,” Texas steps forward, and Connie forgets to be afraid, staring at Texas, intrigued. “I forgot,” she says, low and fierce. “He _made_ me forget.” She spits the words with a vengeance. “He took Alpha from me, and wiped me.” She taps Connie on the chest twice, each tap carrying bruising force. “And _you_ , Miss Spy, are going to help me.”

“With what?” Connie asks, her spine tingling. She isn’t sure if this is a partnership or blackmail. Maybe both?

“Find out why he’s doing this, and then make him _pay_.”

Connie stares at her, and then finds herself starting to grin.

“I think we can make that work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Manipulation, suspected character death. 
> 
> Come chat with me on [tumblr!](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
